Bubbles
by Determamfidd
Summary: Martha Jones and the no-good, very bad day. With big dresses, mud, banter, a manual called 'So You Lack Bridezilla Genes', wellington boots, Cheeky Walking Fishy People, and space snot. Spoilers: S4
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes:

Not mine, no money, no sue. No point!

Partially based on my own horrendous wedding-dress-picking experiences.  
(I totally should write a manual for brides without the Bridezilla Gene. Instant bestseller, IMO.)

Like all the stuff I am posting here, it is woefully out of date and jossed beyond all oblivion. I hope you enjoy anyway!

Loves feedback and long walks on the beach.

* * *

**BUBBLES **

**Chapter One: Fluffy Monstrosity**

The noise really was very annoying.

Martha Jones cracked open one eye to glower muzzily at her bleeping phone. It was far too far away to reach without actually getting out of bed and relinquishing her warm spot under the duvet. Irrationally, she pulled the covers over her head and fervently hoped that whoever it was would get bored and go away.

Beside her, Tom groaned. "Marth', you gonna get that?" he mumbled, his knee bumping hers.

"Mmmmhhmm," she answered from within her duvet cocoon. "Nnnph."

"Uuunh," he replied succinctly, and nudged her knee again.

"Dunwann," she growled, nudging him back.

His low, warm chuckle sounded, and he started to poke her in the ribs. "Go on then... Go on…. Go on go on go on go_waaaan_…"

"Stop it!" She pulled the covers from her head to give him a glare, which didn't last long in the face of his sleepy grin. "Oh, very funny."

"Got you laughing," he pointed out with a drowsy smile. "And your phone has stopped."

She glanced over at the phone, before making a 'pff' sound between her teeth and burying her face in her pillow again. "Good."

Tom scooted over slightly and pushed her hair back. "You're just not much of a morning person, are you."

"Nhn-hnn," she grunted. "Tha's nice," she added as he started to stroke her hair and neck.

"Mmm," he agreed, as she rolled over to her side, and his hand traced the slopes of her tiny waist and her softly flared hips. "I heartily concur, Doctor Jones."

She grinned, her eyes still closed. "I'm still asleep, Doctor Milligan."

"Preliminary diagnosis includes somniloquy and very nice hips, then."

"And has this diagno — oh no," Martha's playful mood evaporated as the phone began to ring again. "Bet its Mum. Or Jack. Or Tish."

"Better answer it." Tom sat up and yawned prodigiously, scratching at his stomach. "Right, getting up. At least I've got day shift, even if it is the weekend."

Martha squealed as the cold air hit her where the duvet gaped between them. "That's freezing! Give them back!"

He leaned over her and murmured, "I'll _bring_ you the phone as penance…?" She could hear the grin in his voice. She tried to look as haughty as she could with a duvet clutched about her neck.

"Deal."

The buzzing, bleeping thing was dropped on her pillow, and a kiss planted on her forehead. "Shower," Tom said by way of explanation, rubbing his eyes. "My turn for breakfast, isn't it?"

"Mmm," she said, and sat up to smack his bum as he turned. "Hop to it, then!"

"You dare! Revenge shall be mine," he declaimed, waggling a finger sternly at her as he left the bedroom. She could hear his lovely, warm chuckle drifting down the hall.

Giggling a little, she pressed the green button on the phone. "Hello, Martha Jones speaking."

"Martha! I've been trying to call you! Did you forget about the appointment?"

"Mum," Martha blinked, "it's Saturday. What appointment?"

"Dresses? You're getting married remember?" her mother's voice was laden with its usual mix of exasperation and humour. "We booked a whole day of appointments at all these bridal boutiques - you've got to book nowadays, in my day you could just walk in - anyway, you can start finding what you want to wear on the day."

"I remember, I remember," Martha winced as her feet hit the cold wooden floor. "Urgh. First one's at nine, yeah?"

"I thought you were meeting Tish and I here before we went out together," her mother said reproachfully. "Didn't Tish call you?"

Martha blinked. "No?"

"Oh. Anyway, I suppose we'll meet you there. Tom out of the way today?"

"Not that I like that phrase much, but yeah," Martha padded over to the mirror and inspected the black rings under her eyes. "He's working."

"Good." Her mother quickly gave her the address of the first dress shop. "At nine, all right? Don't be late, Martha! I'll see you then!"

"See you, Mum," Martha sighed.

Oh, brilliant.

* * *

Tom made a decent scrambled eggs on toast, but Martha pushed them around a little before blurting, "is it too late to go to Gretna Green?"

Tom paused in the middle of the day's funnies, a cup frozen half-way to his lips. "What?"

"Mum's got me trying on dresses today," she groaned, and her forehead hit the table. "Oh, _god._"

Tom blinked, and then carefully put down the coffee cup. "Martha," he said in a strangled voice. "That's… hilarious."

"Your sympathy is noted," she muttered against the wood. He burst out laughing.

"Martha Jones, you saved the world, and you're frightened of a couple of yards of shiny fabric?"

"Not a couple of yards," she mumbled, "a couple of kilometres! Tom." She raised her head again, her eyes pleading. "A couple of _kilometres_ in the hands of _my mother._ Can't I just walk South America again?"

He winced. "Ouch."

"Well, yeah," she said heavily. "Oh this is going to be _dire_. Gretna Green sounds sooooo good right now."

"It'll be fine, sweetheart. You'll see. Tish'll protect you from the big bad tulle-monster."

"Yuck, tulle," she made a face. "Tulle, puffed sleeves, saddlebags under the skirt, _bows_, ergh. And I get to try on a million of them, while some perfect stranger dresses me and ogles my goodies."

"Now _that_ I do not approve of," he remarked, and took his plate and cup to the sink. "I'm the only one with full ogling rights to your goodies."

"There's a glowing addition to your portfolio." She picked up her fork, and then grinned ruefully up at him. "I'm sorry I'm so grumpy, love. I loathe clothes shopping — always have — and this is going to be my normal horrendous experience times a million. Short girls with curves do _not_ have a good time at the shops."

"You're not short," he said automatically. "You're petite."

Martha's grin became more genuine. "Ah, I have trained you well!" she waved her fork in his direction, and then shoveled some eggs into her mouth. "Mmm. Very well."

Tom laughed and kissed the top of her head. "You're beautiful," he murmured against her hair. "And _that's_ revenge for earlier!" he added, smacking her soundly on her rump.

"TOM MIWWIGAW!" she managed through a mouthful of eggs and toast, before swallowing. "That's it, war is declared. Consider this a formal declaration!"

"Love to make an attempt on your borders," he gave her a lascivious wink, "but — damn, I'll be late. I've got that rotavirus patient of Gareth's today. Adorable little girl, about four — doesn't understand that she's sick."

Martha pulled his head down to give him a proper kiss. "Mmm. Love you."

"Love you too. See you tonight. Curly's?"

"Uh-huh, at seven. You'll be finished?"

He gave a half-shrug. "Most likely, if we've enough staff at changeover. See you then, love."

She heard him whistling as he grabbed his bag and keys from the front hall, and then the click of the front door closing behind him, and a small smile crossed her face. Hard to believe they'd only been together a year. Such a short time. But loving him was the easiest thing she'd ever done, as opposed to the hardest — which was both her previous experience and his. But Tom - he even adored her in her muzzy morning state, bed-hair and sleep-eyes and lines on her forehead from the sheets. Thought she was cute when she was cross. Loved her lightning-quick topic changes and stubborn, steely determination. Made her laugh until she was hyperventilating.

Yawning again, Martha rinsed her plate and cup before making plans — she'd have to wear _nice_ underwear, and not boring plain ones if random store-people were to see them. Oh _god_. And shoes — did they provide heels in these places, to look at hem length? Should she bring some? Wear some?

_There should be a manual,_ she groused to herself as she applied a bit of mascara, shoved her boots on, packed a pair of silver strappy heels. _Brides — The Things They Don't Tell You,_ she improvised. _Or… So You Lack Bridezilla Genes!_ Grabbing her keys, she faced the door for two seconds, and took a deep, calming breath, before opening it with her usual brisk determination, and so set off to endure what was probably the most ridiculous day of her life.

* * *

"No."

"But, darling," Francine Jones wheedled. "The bodice is so lovely on you…"

"That's a no, Mum." Tish glanced from Martha's slowly reddening face back to her mother. "She hates it."

Francine sucked a sharp breath between her teeth and studied her middle child carefully. Martha, after stepping on to the carpet-covered box, had not taken her gaze from the mirror as her cheeks flushed darker and darker. "Oh, take it off, Martha," Francine said fondly. "It's hideous."

"Absolutely hideous," mumbled Martha. "I feel like it's eating me."

"It looks like it is," said Tish cheerfully. "Sharon?"

The bustling, middle-aged assistant with the beaded cardigan covered her smile with her hand. "No, not really you, is it dear? Come on, I'll help you be rid of it."

"Hooray," sighed Martha. "Is there anything in the store I haven't tried on yet?"

"Haven't even gotten to veils yet, dear," Sharon remarked, leading Martha back to the change room, carefully holding up miles of silk taffeta.

"Kill me," Martha groaned to Tish.

"Hey, you volunteered to get married, remember?" Tish grinned. "As I recall, you were even excited."

"I volunteered to _be_ married," Martha struggled to get the miles of material under control. "I didn't volunteer to be slowly tortured… oh no." The jaunty little tune of her phone rang out through the store. "Mum? Can you get that?"

Francine scrabbled through Martha's handbag. "Do you ever clean up this thing?" she muttered. "You've got more stuff in here than I would have thought possible. Ah!" The phone, buzzing merrily, was produced, and then Francine's face froze. "Um… Martha?"

Martha was trying to back into the change room without ripping the fluffy monstrosity. "Yeah?"

Tish glanced over her mother's shoulder. "You need to take this."

Martha frowned and held out her hand for the phone. "What is… oh. Oh, perfect." She flipped open the phone and sighed, "Hello, Martha Jones speaking. And by the way, lousy timing, Doctor."

"Martha! Good! Great! How are you!"

"A bit… busy, at the moment. Problem?" she grated through her teeth.

"Weeeeelll… yes, sort of, I need your help, but Jack can't know — and what do you mean lousy timing? Ahem, _Time Lord_!"

"Doctor," Martha began, but he was going twenty to the dozen now. She could hear the click and whiz of TARDIS controls as he barreled around the console.

"Hang on, just triangulating on your phone signal, be there in a jiff, anyway the deal is, I was visiting our friends the Hath, remember the Hath? Course you remember the… back to the point, the Hath's homeworld is a great big ball of watery goop and it's under attack from big nasty space snot."

Martha blinked. "Space snot."

"Rutans, reckon you've heard the name, they double as Sontaran chew-toys. Aaaaaand, here we are!"

The coughing, grating noise of the TARDIS started to resonate through the room, and Martha watched in horror as a row of horrendously expensive dresses crashed to the floor in the resultant breeze. "No way, Doctor!" she hollered down the phone. "You are _not doing this!_"

But the familiar tall box was flickering into existence in the middle of the pricey boutique. Martha's eyes flicked to the two store assistants at the doorway who were watching open-mouthed, and smiled helplessly. Her principal torturer, Sharon, gave a weak moan and fell into a dead faint.

The TARDIS door creaked open, and the familiar lanky figure bounded out, hands in pockets. "Martha Jones, hello! And Francine, and Tish! How are you all! No, can't stay, got a planet to save and all that, same old same old… um, what's with the ah…" the Doctor scratched his cheek, considering the fluffy monstrosity, "dress?" he said finally.

Martha threw the massive skirts to the floor. "Hello, wedding?" she said acerbically.

"Oh! Right!" he looked taken aback. "Not… now, is it?"

She sighed. "I'm picking a dress."

"Not that one, it's awful. Nice bodice though," he remarked. Martha gave her mother a significant look.

"Doctor, you mentioned Rutans, and the Hath," she said wearily. "Can't it wait until I get out of this powder puff?"

"No time!" He grabbed her hand. "Come on!"

"No way, mister." She pulled back. "I am not traipsing around a mudball in this!"

Tish, who had been helping the groggy Sharon sit up, now raised an eyebrow at her sister. "You can't do anything normal, can you," she said good-humouredly. "Go on, Mum and I'll fix things here."

"I can't go like this!" Martha wailed as the Doctor tugged at her hand again.

"Martha," Francine shook her head slightly, her smile rueful. "Go."

"She most certainly can not!" the dumpy Sharon suddenly snapped. "That is the property of this store! Do you think I am in the habit of letting my merchandise walk out of the shop?" The little woman clambered to her feet with Tish's assistance. "I don't care how many… boxes appear, she is not leaving wearing that dress!"

The Doctor tugged at her hand again, his eyes appealing. "Come oooon, Doctor Jones," he wheedled. "Space and time? Travelling? Hang it, I need you!"

"Why, though?" she protested as she was dragged towards the TARDIS. "Why me?"

"Umm," he looked embarrassed. "Isortacan'tspeaktothem."

She blinked. "Pardon?" she said in a dangerous tone.

He blew air between his teeth, dropping her hand and shoving his back in his pockets. "Well, you talked to the Hath, right? Understood them?"

"Not right at first," she said slowly. "But then the TARDIS…"

"Right!" He nodded as though awarding points. "But there's something about the metabolic shape-shifting abilities of a Rutan that muck up the psychic atmosphere of Hatha Seventeen. The old girl can't make sense of all that bubbling because the Rutans are…"

"Filling the air with static, got it." Martha frowned. "But there's no guarantee I'll be able to understand them now, with the translation doohickey out of order."

"Ah!" He held up a finger triumphantly. "That's the beauty of it! You, Martha Jones, were given the full benefit of the TARDIS' Hath translation doohickey _before_ the Rutans came squelching in. Or after, in a linear sense, but not_your_ linear sense, see? Should still work for you."

She shook her head. "Why not you? You were there, spoke to them as well…"

"Uhh," he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "The TARDIS is too closely linked to me. What's affecting her is affecting me, too."

"But not me."

"Nope."

"I don't understand a word of this," Tish muttered.

"It's absolute twaddle!" Sharon declared shrilly. "Young lady, I don't know what this game is, but you will take off my property, this instant!"

Martha was swung behind the Doctor's back, and he gave the little woman a huge grin. "Hello there, I'm the Doctor," he beamed. "Sorry about this, but Martha's got to skedaddle for a bit. Have her back safe and sound in a jiff."

"The dress, Doctor," Martha hissed. "She wants the dress back."

He looked disdainfully at the silk taffeta horror. "Why?"

Francine disguised her laugh as a cough.

Sharon drew herself up to her full height. "I am calling the police," she said in a threatening voice.

"Good for you!" the Doctor pushed Martha gently towards the TARDIS. "Love the police, marvelous people, good with dogs. Run," he muttered to Martha.

"See you, Mum, Tish." Martha met her mother's eyes. "Back… soon?"

The Doctor was gabbling at Sharon. "… and here we go, good on twenty-seven planets, should still be quite a bit on there, I'm sure I haven't maxed it out for a few centuries, but you know what credit card corporations are like, slipping a charge here and there until you suddenly find yourself hunted by space Rhinos for credit fraud…"

"You're not buying it?" Francine cocked her head, her eyes incredulous.

He shrugged. "Why not?"

"Because it's awful?" Tish suggested. Sharon threw her a poisonous look.

Martha sighed. "You all realize I could have gotten dressed in the time we've spent arguing, don't you?"

Four pairs of eyes swung to her, and there was a resounding silence. The Doctor cleared his throat.

"Good point, cheekily made," he said finally. "Come on, Doctor Jones. _Pleeeease_."

She smiled despite herself. "Lead the way, Mister Smith."


	2. Chapter 2

AN: The crack, oh the crack, it has meeeee...

**BUBBLES**

**Chapter Two: Purple Dancing Daleks**

"So."

"Right! Hatha Seventeen, here we come!" The Doctor kicked a lever under the TARDIS console, his hands busy with the switches. He paused abruptly and looked up at her. "It's good to see you, by the way." 

She folded her arms over the awful dress, her mouth quirking into a reluctant grin. "You too."

He nodded his head at her. "You're going to need a bit more than that. Hatha is a swamp planet… with extra swamp. It's the squelchiest place I've ever been. I mean, really muddy. Still, it might improve that dress. Certainly can't hurt it."

She blew a raspberry at him. "Blame my mother."

"Oh, I'm wiser than that," he grinned. "Thankfully I thought of everything. Over by the door, there."

An eyebrow shot up. "Wellington boots… and a snorkel."

He looked affronted. "It's a space snorkel!"

Martha restrained herself, with some effort. "Wellington boots and a space… right. Doctor. Where's my room nowadays? I think I left some jeans here…"

"No time," he said briskly. "We've arrived."

Martha pulled on the boots and picked up the snorkel reluctantly, whilst the Doctor fitted one to his own messy head. "This is absolutely surreal," she sighed. "I've overdosed on coffee, or something. Jack put Maldraffian trippers in the tea. I've hallucinated the whole day."

The Doctor peered at her through the plastic goggles. "Been there, done that," he commented. "Purple dancing daleks do not a good night's sleep make."

She stared at him. "Seriously?"

"Weeeell, it was after the whole Manhattan thing." He scratched at the hair sticking out at all angles from the snorkel straps. "They had feathers."

"Feathers," she said flatly.

He nodded sheepishly. "And sequins."

She groaned, her head hitting the wall of the TARDIS with a thunk. "I need a drink."

"Well, you're in luck there!" He pulled open the doors, dragging her to her feet. "Because what this planet has in abundance - is water."

Martha started after him as he squidged his way over what looked like a flat, open expanse of murky water interspersed with little hillocks of black-green algae. "Not that kind of drink," she growled, carefully gathering up the front of the fluffy monstrosity. "Is the whole planet like this?"

"Pretty much." He held out his hand as she clambered awkwardly over the slippery hummocks. "Gets deeper, of course, got to be careful of sinkholes… whoops!"

Martha had fallen face-first into the boggy goop. "Oh, that – is - gross," she gasped, spitting greenish-grey water and wiping it out of her eyes. "This is hopeless, Doctor, I can't walk in this thing!"

"Hmm, you have a point." He crouched down beside her. "Hold on."

"To what?"

"Ahh… another good point. Here we go." The Doctor grabbed the layers upon layers of the mud-slick skirt, and hauled back. The silk taffeta ripped with an unspeakably revolting, squelchy sound.

"Ohhh, yuck," Martha grimaced. "And now I look like I dance on tables for a living. God, am I glad Jack's not here."

"You never know, you could start a trend! Ripped, mud-covered Wedding-dress, bodice only, tatters of skirt, green wellingtons and a space-snorkel. Bet you ten quid all the Hath start wearing that next season." The Doctor threw the heavy material into the bog and pulled a face. "Though I'd really prefer it if they didn't."

"I'd prefer it if I wasn't," Martha said pointedly, and he hauled her to her feet again. "So why can't Jack be here anyway?"

"He's been here before." The Doctor slung an arm over her shoulder and they began to pick their way carefully over the swamp. "He owes several million credits."

She snorted. "Gambling?"

He grinned. "Child support."

"No way!" She stared at him wide-eyed, and he nodded solemnly. "Oh, he is toast when I get back to work," she crowed.

"Miss Jones, that's hardly charitable," he protested, but Martha dug him in the ribs.

"You just want to tease him first. Spoilsport."

"Okay, guilty," he laughed. "Aw, you can't blame me, though, can you?"

"You don't work with him," she pointed out.

"Yeah, there is that," he chuckled. "All right, okay, it's all yours. But I want to be there. Gotta see his face when you tell him he swam upstream with the wrong salmon."

"No! Not… fish eggs?" she gaped.

He nodded gleefully. "Why do think it's several _million_?"

* * *

Martha cleared her throat.

Her audience stared at her.

She stared back.

"Say something!" the Doctor hissed at her. Martha cleared her throat again, and wished she wasn't dressed like Wedding Barbarella (Wellingtons Sold Separately).

"I'm going to kill you," she hissed back at him. One of the Hath bubbled at her, and she startled slightly. "Um, him, not you. And not really." She glared at him. "But he'll wish I had," she added darkly.

The Doctor pulled the knot of his tie down a little, and smiled at the Hath. "Hah…"

"Right," she muttered. "Ladies and gentlemen? May I have your attention?" she called, standing a little straighter.

"Did you know, those are very nice knickers," the Doctor remarked. Martha whipped her head around to give him a look that could kill.

"Glad they pass muster," she grated. "Now let me talk to the nice fish-people, okay?"

"Sorry, sorry." He waved his hand dismissively and leaned back against the aquamobile wall, arms folded. "Golly, touchy," he muttered to the Hath standing next to him.

"My name is Doctor Martha Jones, and this," she smacked his shoulder without turning around, "is the Doctor. We're here to help. The Doctor knows a lot about the Rutans, he should be able to assist you with preparing your defense. I am a doctor of medicine, and I can help with any injuries your people have sustained in the fighting."

To the Doctor, it sounded like Martha had just imitated the Flowerpot men for a couple of minutes. He wrinkled his nose. "That's what Hathic sounds like out of water?" he asked himself incredulously. "That is weird." He turned to his neighbour again. "Flobadobble?" he said politely.

The Hath ignored him.

Martha was still speaking. "If you could send your military advisers to speak with us, I can translate for the Doctor. And," she looked down at her bare legs and the dripping white silk taffeta, "I could use a towel."

Five minutes later, the world was a slightly nicer place in which to live. Martha was wrapped in a blanket seemingly woven from dry, fuzzy strands of the algae that floated everywhere on this soggy planet. It was surprisingly warm and soft. She sipped contentedly at the hot, herbal-tasting drink one of the medical officers had handed her, and dreamily repeated the Doctor's words to the Commander, Track, and vice-versa.

"Rutans are excellent swimmers," the Doctor was stating in a firm tone. "No good hiding out in the swamps or evacuating your cities."

Track seemed to frown. "They cannot be very fast," he bubbled.

"Ah, but! Shape-shifter, remember? They're exactly as fast as the species they mimic. Best guess is, they'll be mimicking your lot."

"How can you discern a counterfeit?"

The Doctor held up a finger. "Two things. First, occasionally there's a greenish glow around the face area. And b," he pursed his lips, looked at the ceiling, "I mean, secondly, they'll be stilted, wooden. They'll barely respond to outside stimulus at all."

Track pondered that for a moment. "Do they have any weaknesses?"

"Yup!" The Doctor leaned forward. "They're a gestalt intelligence, and they can manipulate electricity. What does that suggest to you?"

Track raised his scaly pinkish eyebrows. "You're about to tell me, I fear."

The Doctor looked at Martha reproachfully. "Did you throw that last bit in?"

She shrugged. "Don't look at me. Must be your natural charisma."

"Gee, thanks, Miss Jones," he said dryly.

"No charge."

"Anyway," he gave her a mock-glare, "you can take them out the same way they've taken out my ship's translation circuits. Fill the psychic plane with electric charges, set up a bit of static of our own. That'll inhibit their communication and their shape-shifting abilities."

Track spread his hands, shaking his head slowly. "We haven't the technological capability to set up such a device."

"Sure you do! All those cloning extrapolation devices!" The Doctor slapped his thighs and stood up. "Re-route those things, and what do you get?"

Track rolled his eyes. "Amaze me."

The Doctor frowned. "Martha…"

"Not me, I swear!" She held up her hands in surrender. "Don't shoot the messenger!"

The Doctor looked down his thin nose at the commander for a moment. "Cheeky fish," he finally mumbled. "Cheeky… walking fishy person."

"It might help if you got to the point?" Martha said meaningfully.

The Doctor made a 'tch' sound at her, but started to explain anyway, pacing up and down. "Those cloning thingumajiggits, last time, they took my DNA and created a whole other life, yes? One with emotions as highly developed as an adolescent human's, with all the knowledge and responses of a fully-trained warrior."

"Right," Martha nodded, after translating. "You're saying they can send out those pre-programmed responses? Fill the background with… voices that don't exist?"

"Electronic voices, no need for actual clones," he nodded approvingly. "All those fight responses, all those skills. The Hath had those machines too, not just the humans. Just a little jiggery-pokery," he waggled the sonic, his eyebrows raised, "and the Rutans are stuck in their own form, without anyone to talk to."

"Space snot," Martha grinned.

"Space snot!" The Doctor grinned back.

Track tilted his head, his gills flaring. "Will this also reduce their electrical capability?"

"Ah, no." The Doctor looked embarrassed. "Strengthen it, actually. But!" he held out both hands in a pacifying gesture, "they can overload! Just zap a few times with an electronic pulse ray, and they'll have to go home with a terrible headache."

"It will kill them?"

The Doctor's face suddenly hardened. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," he said in that quiet, slow voice – so unlike his ordinary cheerful prattling. Martha shivered as Track registered the change of mood, and his frame stiffened.

"This is our home, Doctor. We will defend it and people will die," Track bubbled. "War is like that."

"I've got to give them a choice," the Doctor stated. He didn't seem angry or frustrated: It was a simple statement of what the near future held.


	3. Chapter 3

**BUBBLES**

**Chapter Three: Cranky Yellow Footballs**

"Is this thing… hello? Helloooo?" The Doctor tapped the communit with his finger. "One two, one two, testing, testing, this is the news at five… Anybody listening?"

"It's not transmitting," Martha translated from Track's mutterings.

"Ah." Spinning on his heel, the Doctor punched a few random buttons on a big shiny machine behind him. "Frequency… channels… good, good, uh-huh, right! Bad Guy Warning, take two." He cleared his throat, and then frowned.

"What?" Martha asked.

"I hate this bit," his lip twisted slightly. "You do your spiel, bad guy listens, threatens you a bit, you repeat yourself, bad guy laughs maniacally, you make the whole lot go kaboomski." He sighed gustily. "Repeat ad nauseam with interchangeable villains. It's so _boring_."

"There, there," said Martha amusedly. "Poor little hero."

He raised his eyebrows, eyes wide. "You too! Is there cheeky juice in the water here, or something? Blimey, it's like the intergalactic one-liner awards around here. Musical interlude anyone? Billy Crystal about to announce the second half?"

Track rolled his disc-like eyes. "He hasn't even noticed."

"Umm, Doctor?" Martha nodded towards the fizzing screen over the communit, where a pale green jelly quivered and bobbled. "You've got an audience."

"Ooooh." The Doctor span back to the screen. "Hello! You must be the Rutan Host command! I'm the Doctor, that's Martha, this is Track. Errr… ignore all that stuff before, will you?"

"Doctor?" the Rutan's voice was as gelatinous as its form. "The Doctor?"

"That's me, hello!" he waved cheerfully. "Wave to the space snot, Martha," he hissed behind his shoulder.

"Hiiii," she drawled, wiggling her fingers. "Doctor, the point?"

"Oh, right, yes! Er," he scratched at the back of his head where the snorkel had left tracks in his hair. "You wouldn't see your way clear to leaving this planet alone, would you? Only the Hath were here first, and your slaughtering them just a bit is putting a crimp on their style, as it were. And also," he drew himself up slightly, "I don't like it."

"This planet is of supreme tactical importance in the war effort," the Rutan gurgled. "We will not abandon it in response to feeble threats."

"Told you," the Doctor shrugged. Martha shrugged back. "So I have to stop you," he addressed the Rutan once more. "That's okay, done it before, story of my life, really. But it'd make things a whole bunch easier if you just cleared off."

"You cannot stop us, Doctor," the Rutan's green glow intensified. "We know of you and your savage companion. Your trickery will not work a second time."

"Savage?" Martha growled. "What's this?"

"Ah, long story, he doesn't mean you," the Doctor said hastily. "Someone else, a long time ago, back when I was someone else too, for that matter."

"Cease your prattling!" the Rutan snarled.

"That'll be the day," muttered Track.

"Savage indeed!" Martha fumed.

"My head," the Doctor moaned. "Oi, Rutan, get lost, will you? Got my hands full with this lot, never mind you."

"No, Doctor. Hatha Seventeen will be ours." The Rutan quivered as its voice rose triumphantly. "You shall die here, along with these primitive fish and their pathetic civilisation. This conversation is over."

"Not very polite," the Doctor complained. "Actually, that was rude! Very rude. Wasn't that rude? Now," and his demeanour suddenly hardened in one of his lightning-fast mood changes, "You will leave this planet. Or I will stop you. You say you know all about me, but you know so very, very little, Rutan. Or you'd know that I _never give up_. Now leave this planet, or face the consequences. And I don't think you'd like them."

The Rutan abruptly vanished from the screen.

"What a pleasant fellow," the Doctor murmured. "So charming, so debonair, so… squishy." He turned to Martha. "What did I tell you?"

"No maniacal laughter," she pointed out.

"Hmm, well, there are variations," he admitted. "Can you ask your cheeky walking fishy person here to lead me to the Hathic cloning facilities? Let's set up that static interference."

As Martha flobadobbed her way through the request, the Doctor tapped the communit idly, his expression thoughtful. Eventually Track gestured to them both and he and Martha were led down a cold, militaristic corridor.

"Always corridors," Martha muttered, adjusting her mossy blanket around her shoulders. "God, it's freezing. My legs are completely numb. I wonder how Mum and Tish got on with that dress shop owner."

"Oi, I paid, didn't I?" the Doctor protested. "Not sure why…" he trailed off as Martha gave him a venomous look. "Ah."

"I don't care how hideous the dress is, or was, Doctor, that was supposed to be about me for once. The whole dress thing. Mum had some champagne, and we were all going to go out for lunch," Martha said flatly. "You didn't even ask if I was busy. You could have pointed the TARDIS to a couple of hours later, after all, and that would have been fine with me."

"I'm sorry, Martha," the Doctor mumbled. She sighed.

"I know you're really terrible at this sort of thing, so you're forgiven. But I'd better get an absolutely amazing wedding present — and you'd better not be late."

"Ahhh, um, but Martha, I don't really, er…"

"But nothing, Doctor." She hoisted the blanket again. "You're coming, and that's final." She glanced up at him. "I'm insisting on banana daiquiris behind the bar specially."

"Oh, well, in that case," he brightened.

Martha grinned into the gloom.

* * *

"Rrrrright!" the Doctor finally announced.

Martha yawned from her position curled up on the hard concrete floor. "All done?"

He nodded. "All… hey!" the machine made a noise like a vacuum cleaner being powered down, and the Doctor thumped it solidly. "Shoddy construction," he grunted. "Can't get the parts, these days. Or those days. Not exactly clear on that one."

"My legs have stiffened," Martha realised as she tried to stand, and her knees screamed in protest. "I wish you'd let me shove my jeans on."

The Doctor looked guilty. "Ahhh, I've really made a shemozzle of your day, haven't I? Here we go…" and he pulled her to her feet, slinging her arm over his bony shoulders. "There we are, Martha."

"Owww," she puffed. "Oh no… pins and needles, pins and needles, pins and needles!"

"They'll subside; it's just the blood flow to your legs…" he trailed off. "Not helping, is it."

"I _know,_ Doctor," she groaned. "I didn't go through medical school to learn to figure skate."

He shook his head. "You never used to be this cheeky."

"I never used to be this naked in public either." She nodded to the machine. "It's working?"

"Yup," he said expansively. "All sorted. The Rutans are just cranky glowing footballs at the moment."

"But, hang on," Martha frowned, "you said their electrical capabilities would be strengthened. Can they… electrocute people from a distance?"

The Doctor grimaced, and started to help her back along the corridor to the communications juncture. "Unfortunately. And water is an excellent conductor of electricity. I need you to tell Commander Sassypants to keep all his troops in the aquamobiles."

"Okay," Martha stamped down on her tingling feet. "Are you… I don't know, going to drop a toaster in the water, or something?"

He stopped stock-still. "What?"

She half-shrugged. "You know, zap all the Rutans out there by overloading their systems. You mentioned that too, I think."

"Martha," he said in a half-strangled tone, "You are. You. You are a _genius._ I hadn't even thought of that."

Her mouth dropped open slightly. "Seriously? Mister million-possibilities-in-a-minute?"

He shook his head a little. "Nope. For that, I'll even dance at the wedding." He bit his lower lip. "With you. Not with Tom — or Jack."

"Tom's a perfectly lovely dancer, I'll have you know," Martha said archly. "Nonetheless, it's a deal. But Doctor — no tux, please. Your suit will be fine."

"Ah, got it."

Martha's legs were still freezing, but she could move them somewhat better now, and so she released the Doctor's neck and stretched them cautiously. "Ow. Getting better, I think."

"Good, you're making me lopsided," he nudged her. "Good to keep going?"

"Yeah." Martha took a tighter hold of her blanket. "Let's go, then."

Back in the communications centre, Martha had to shout to get the darting Hath to listen to her. Eventually she clambered awkwardly atop a crate, stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled as loud as she could.

A veritable storm of bubbles answered her as the Hath protested. Martha shucked her mossy blanket and held up her arms for quiet, extremely aware of her naked legs and the tattered, stained taffeta skirt barely covering her knickers. "Excuse me, Hath!" she yelled. "We have some important information for you concerning the Rutans! Now, I know you're probably all in a tizz about the people who suddenly turned into, I dunno, murderous yellow blobs a few minutes ago — but I need you all to calm down and we can explain the next step."

"Next step?" Track demanded. "What do you two mad things want to do now?"

She gave him a disapproving look. "Well there's gratitude," she said reprovingly. Raising her arms again, she called out, "Right! Here's what we do! First, we've got to get all your people into the aquamobiles or onto dry land. Nobody stays in the water, got that?" Martha looked hard at the assembled soldiery. "Well? Go, send the message!"

A half-dozen Hath scurried to the communits. Martha blinked. "That was quick," she murmured as an aside to the Doctor.

He folded his arms and grinned at her. "You kidding? Even if it's all in flobbadobble, it'd be kind of hard _not_ to obey the extremely cross lady with the legs. You're good at this, Miss Jones."

"I recently had a bit of experience at herding frightened people, Mister Smith," she reminded him. "And — what was that about my legs?"

"The message has been sent — we will have confirmation within minutes," reported a soldier, his gills flaring nervously. "What's next, Doctor Martha Jones?"

She blinked. "Oh, yeah… um. Doctor? We ought to make sure these aquamobiles are free of Rutans, right?"

He nodded. "They'll be extremely disoriented, and a bit sick — shouldn't be too hard to push them out the door. Just — no-one touch them, and use bits of wood or plastic, _nothing metal_. They got that?"

Martha repeated this to the soldier, who snapped off a salute to her and formed several squads to comb the aquamobile whilst others forwarded the orders to the other Hath settlements. Martha sat down on the edge of her crate and rubbed her bare, tingling shins. "To think I was worried about some random shop assistant seeing my pants this morning," she said ruefully to herself.

"Don't worry," the Doctor said conversationally. "You should see what I've worn whilst saving the world."

She giggled a bit, and then squeezed out her gunk-spattered hair. "Oh, _yuck._ Okay, what next?"

The Doctor pulled out the sonic screwdriver and rolled it absently between his fingers. "To borrow your analogy — we drop a toaster on them." He frowned. "Did that Hath just…"

"Just what?"

"Aha! Of course! Oh, I am an idiot!" He smacked his forehead. "I'll be able to understand all that flowerpot gibberish as the signal from the cloning machines intensifies! The artificial personality traits and responses are cancelling out the Rutan Host's communications and thus their shape shifting ability, and so the TARDIS translation circuits can finally break through all that static, bam, oh yes!" He grinned hugely at her.

"Doesn't do you any good, no-one understands you sixty percent of the time," Martha said good-naturedly.

He paused. "Well, that's not _my_ fault," he said in a slightly injured tone. Martha nudged him with an elbow.

"Calm down, just teasing you," she smiled. "So, where do we get our toaster?"

He raised an eyebrow. "The kitchen. Really, Martha."

"What, seriously, an actual toaster?" Martha stared at him. "I thought…"

"What?" The Doctor folded his arms. "You thought what?"

"I thought you'd need something slightly more impressive," she admitted. "I mean, some powerful fancy space engine to drop into the swamp. Not a dinky little machine for heating _bread_."

"Don't blame _me_, it was your idea," he said acerbically.

~**~  
**  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**BUBBLES**

**Chapter Four: Frog-Themed Tonsil Accessories**

It took a surprisingly short time for the Doctor to rig up the toaster. "All on internal generators, these days," he explained when Martha queried the lack of a cord or plug. "Just going to boost it a bit…" he delved back into its innards, glasses slipping off his nose and sonic screwdriver buzzing.

Martha rubbed her tingling legs and wondered where her mossy blanket had got to. Eventually, she stood and stretched. "Urgh, I'm stiff. Doctor? Just going to see if I can get some more of that herb drink."

"Mhhm," he replied absently. "Not too much though."

Martha frowned. "Why?" She gasped suddenly and blurted, "it's not poisonous, is it?"

He put down the toaster and his face was innocently bland. "Nah. But, weeeeelll… it has a laxative effect on the human digestive system."

Her hand dropped from the door as though it were white-hot. "You said what?"

He held his hands out defensively. "Only in large quantities," he said in a placating tone. "You'll be fine. Go on, go get a drink."

Martha's smile was sardonic. "I think I'll pass, thanks," she said dryly.

"Suit yourself." The Doctor turned back to his toaster. "Nearly done."

Martha shook her head to herself, before the door swung inwards and two Hath dragged a Rutan along on a sheet of some canvas-like material towards the hatch. She yelped slightly, but the Rutan was not the bright yellow-green of the Host commander she had seen on the screen. It was a pale, wan, sickly light green, and it moaned to itself in its tinny voice as the Hath tipped it into the water outside.

"It's in pain," she said softly.

"They're a hive race," the Doctor's equally soft voice behind her made her jump. "They've never been alone in their own minds. The most horrible thing in the world, to be alone with your own thoughts."

Martha didn't think he was talking entirely about the Rutan.

"It's used to being one of millions, each one closer than thinking," he continued. "And now it's all alone in its head, and sick, and frightened. I did that," he added grimly.

Martha reached back and found the Doctor's hand and gave it a squeeze. "It's alone and sick and frightened so that a whole species can survive," she reminded him. "You're saving the Hath. You did that, too."

A little laugh escaped him. "Martha Jones, just brilliant." He held up the toaster. "Well?"

She nodded firmly, holding his gaze. "For the Hath."

The Doctor opened the aquamobile hatch, turned it on, and dropped it into the water. The effect the little futuristic toaster had on the Rutan in the water was immediate, and dramatic. It bubbled slightly, and the seaweed-like tendrils trailing from it stiffened. Then the unmistakable crackle of electricity flickered over the pale green body, and the Rutan wailed loudly. Answering wails echoed all over the swamp as the electrical field raced through the water.

"Oh," Martha breathed.

The Doctor said nothing.

"I just thought of something," Martha said as they gazed out over the flat grey-green water. "What about wildlife? Fish and that, in the swamps? What will my toaster idea have done?"

"They're already dead," the Doctor said quietly. "They were dead the minute the Rutans swam in these waters." He nodded at the hillocks where the TARDIS stood alone and incongruous. "Only reason we aren't is the TARDIS - she's protecting us. Oh, eggs will survive, and most of the fauna on this planet is amphibious, so they'll be on land, but the rest? All dead."

Martha made up her mind. "Right, come on." She yanked his hand.

"Where are we going?"

"To speak to that Host thing again," she said, determinedly striding through the aquamobile with a reluctant Time Lord in tow. "You're going to tell it again, and this time it'll listen. And it'll leave the Hath alone and the wildlife will come back."

"Martha…"

"Not listening. Get your skinny Time Lord behind in there, mister, and tell the Rutans to take their people and leave. There must be other planets in the near solar systems that are uninhabited that Rutans can settle if it's so important."

"It's a strategic thing," the Doctor said, helpless in the face of her stubbornness. "They're manoeuvring for positions against the Sontarans…"

"Then they can manoeuvre elsewhere." Martha hauled him into the communications room, where Track and his officers were poring over the results from the Doctor's two experiments. "Tell them."

"Tell us what?" Track blinked slowly at them with his round black eyes.

"The Doctor is going to speak to the Rutan Host again," Martha said loudly, her eyes challenging him to disagree. "Convince them that getting the hell out of here is the better part of valour."

He just gazed at her, a slight smile tugging the corner of his mouth. Martha scowled fiercely.

"Is that wise?" bubbled Track. "The Rutans are totally disoriented, we could wipe them out in…"

"It's not wise," the Doctor cut in, his half-smile not faltering. "But it's right."

Martha's eyebrow shot up. "Really? Well, thanks."

"Did I ever tell you about my friend Evelyn?" the Doctor strode forward, suddenly all action. Hands flew over controls once more, and the communit console began to flicker with lights. "Doctor Evelyn Smythe. Amazing woman. She was absolutely brilliant, the very best sort of human. Stubborn, kind, funny, clever… made a fantastic chocolate cake, could stare down whole armadas of murderers. Badgered me about this and that when she thought it was the right thing to do. Never said when something was wrong, though. Still, not like I can talk."

Martha leaned against the edge of the communit console. "Or me, I guess."

He whipped his head up, his fringe inches from her face. His eyes were merry, but a hint of sadness lurked at the corners. "You remind me of her, sometimes."

"I do?" Martha folded her arms, unsure how to take that statement. "Thanks again… I think."

"Nah, that's a good thing!" The Doctor turned back to the console, and tapped the microphone again. "She was one of my best friends too."

Martha's stomach seemed to contract slightly, before warm contentment spread through her like flames licking at paper. "She sounds nice," she offered, smiling to herself.

"She was," the Doctor met her eyes again, and Martha once more had the feeling that he was talking about something or someone else entirely. "Oh, she was."

Track bubbled loudly, which Martha supposed was the Hath equivalent of clearing one's throat. "I cannot believe this. Doctor? You have surpassed yourself."

"Why, what've I…?" The Doctor straightened, his expression indignant, before the pale-green jelly quivering on the screen caught his attention. "Ohhhh, I see."

"What, again?" Martha was incredulous.

"Yeah, ignore all that before, you know the drill," the Doctor waved airily with one hand. "Anyway, the important thing _is_, how are you feeling? Hey? Got a bit of an upset tummy, got a frog in your throat?" He turned to Martha. "Never understood that phrase really, 'a frog in your throat'. There're better ways to say, 'ooh, I'm a bit croaky'. I mean, who sticks a frog in their throat, if they have a throat," he nodded to the Rutan, "and aren't French? Not like there's any reason for it. A frog exploring a hitherto-undiscovered evolutionary niche? Eh, could be. Fashion statement? The latest in frog-themed tonsil accessories? And then there's the word 'hoarse' and I am just not going there. That way lies madness and puns your dad used to make at Christmas."

There was a very confused silence, which was eventually broken by Track's head hitting the wall repeatedly.

"Back to the point?" Martha nudged him.

"Right! Sorry, got carried away again." The Doctor jammed his hands in his pockets. "So, really, how are you feeling, Mr. Rutan? Bit lonely?"

"I cannot feel… cannot sense…" the Rutan's previously arrogant tones were weak and quavering. "Have you killed… all my people, Doctor? I have never…"

"They're not dead," the Doctor told it. "I'm just jamming your signals. No communication, no shape-changing, no invasion. Leave this planet in accordance with Article Five of the Shadow Proclamation. Go home, Rutan. Go away."

"You will… let them go?" The metallic voice shook in hope. "They… are not prisoners?"

"What would _I_ do with prisoners? I certainly wouldn't feed you," he exclaimed. "Besides, I wouldn't know where to put you, and the TARDIS doesn't like your brain-patterns."

"The… teleports… are operational?" the Rutan seemed to inch its way towards the screen, almost leaning forward in anticipation. "We… can simply… leave?"

"That's right," the Doctor said earnestly. "You'll be fine, once you've travelled beyond the signal's range, which incidentally coincides exactly with Hatha Seventeen's galactic territory. Find another planet. One that's not populated. Or better yet, stop this stupid war with the Sontarans!"

"They… would crush… us!" the Rutan's voice rose in horror and anger. "We… would be… destroyed!"

"Nah," the Doctor bent his head to the screen, his eyes hard. "Cos that's where I _always_ come in."

He pulled himself straight, sucking a breath between his teeth. "Now. Leave this planet and its people. Martha, you can turn it off."

Martha peered at the buttons, before selecting the most likely candidate. The screen blanked, and the Doctor shook his head. "There's always some excuse, some reason, some idiot," he muttered. "Wherever I go."

"You'd make a lousy travel agent," Martha said teasingly, and the Doctor snorted.

"Oi! Never heard you complaining," he pointed out.

"Um, hello? Wedding Barbarella?" she gestured meaningfully at her bedraggled attire.

"Right," he looked embarrassed again. "Should get you home."

"Oh," said Martha, thinking of Sharon and the disaster at the Bridal boutique, "no rush."

* * *

Francine put her hands on her hips. "What do you mean, the card's no good?"

"Just what I say," Sharon said stubbornly. "The system doesn't recognise it."

Tish looked helplessly at the racks of torn dresses lying on the floor. "Mum," she said slowly. "We can't afford all this."

Francine made a 'tcha!' sound with her teeth. "Don't you think I know that!" she snapped. "We have to wait for Martha. The Doctor had better explain himself."

"Oh no! You're not having any more blue boxes in my shop!" Sharon shrilled. "What about my merchandise?"

"Stuff your merchandise!" Tish folded her arms. "My sister's out there, doing god only knows what!"

Sharon bustled up to the pair and poked Tish above the breastbone. "That's her look-out, isn't it! What I want to know is, who's going to pay for all this? I'm going to lose the next month's worth of business — all my stock is ruined! I want restitution! I know my rights!"

Francine sighed. "We could do it if we sold your father's car…"

"Mum!" Tish stared in horror. "He _loves_ that car!"

"More than Martha?" Francine sat heavily on one of the over-frilled chairs. "I could take students again, start tutoring…"

Tish couldn't find any words, and just rubbed her hands over her face.

"Just so long as my position is clear," Sharon said huffily.

"Crystal," Francine's tone was flat.

"Oh mum," Tish said sadly. "I could chip in — my holiday savings…"

"No, no," Francine waved her away. "You've been saving for too long, Tish, you really need that holi…" she broke off. "Listen!"

The grating, coughing noise rang through the suddenly breathless air.

The effect on Sharon was electric. She shrieked and gathered as many dresses as her short arms allowed, holding them to her like a mother protecting her baby. "Not again!" she wailed. "You and your mad blue disappearing boxes! I'll be ruined! Ruined!"

The wind that preceded the TARDIS' arrival flapped the remaining gowns into a frenzy, and the iconic police box materialised slowly in the corner. Sharon huddled herself and her salvaged dresses under the counter, her face aghast. Francine and Tish backed away slightly, Francine shielding her face from the wind.

The TARDIS door swung open, and Martha's voice could be heard. "Oh well, time to face the music, I guess."

"That's the spirit!" came the Doctor's boisterous tones. "Shouldn't be too bad, after all, I paid for everything. I hope."

Martha stepped out into the shop, and Sharon boggled at the remains of the dress. The corset was stained, the silk-taffeta blotched with greenish-brown mud. The massive skirt was gone, torn completely away, and Martha's pants could clearly be seen between ragged, fraying strips of material. And… were those _wellingtons_?

"You! You!" Sharon spluttered, holding the dresses to herself with one hand, the other pointing erratically at Martha's perplexed face. "Who's going to pay for all this? Hmm? I have rights, you know! Rights!"

Martha looked at the scene, and then at the Doctor who had come to stand beside her. He rubbed the back of his neck, his expression pained.

"Paid for everything, did you," said Martha in a dangerous tone.

"Heh," the Doctor smiled hesitantly. "Well…"

Martha's head dropped heavily into her hands. "I _really_ need that drink." 


	5. Chapter 5

**BUBBLES**

**Chapter Five: Tempura Butterflies**

Martha pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath. "Right. Doctor, we have to fix this."

He pulled at one earlobe nervously. "I don't get it — that card's good on twenty-seven planets…"

"Doesn't look like this is one of them," she pointed out. "Doctor, the TARDIS has destroyed this woman's business. I'm wearing the remains of a designer gown. It might not be as exciting as saving a planet, but it's important. And I'd really like to be around for my wedding and not in front of a judge."

Sharon looked somewhat mollified by this little speech. "We accept Amex, Mastercard, and Visa," she piped up.

"But not the Andolarian Gold card," the Doctor said in a regretful tone. "You wouldn't consider a little trip as compensation?" he ventured, as though he couldn't quite believe he was offering.

Sharon brought her armful of dresses up as a shield. "In that thing?" she squeaked.

"I think that's a no," Tish murmured.

"What if…" Martha said slowly, "we replace all the stock?"

The little woman pulled herself as tall as possible. "Some of those dresses were _couture originals_," she snapped.

"Replace the stock?" Francine said in horror. "Martha, even if I teach for two years, we can't afford it…"

"That's not what she meant," the Doctor interrupted. "Was it?" he looked down at her.

"I think you've got the idea," Martha grinned. "Back in a mo."

* * *

The Andolarian Gold card was accepted without hesitation on the shopping planet of Megamall in the year 26,025. The Doctor and Martha piled the hundreds of fabulous, alien and intricate dresses before the feet of the flabbergasted Sharon, who repeated over and over, "but… the designer… the fabric… the designer…"

"All originals," Martha told her, depositing the last armload.

"But be careful about what you say about that particular fabric," the Doctor added. "It won't be invented on Earth for another four hundred years. Just tell 'em it's a blend or something, that should cover it."

"Bit blasé, Mister Timelines," Martha commented.

"It's been a long day," he retorted.

Francine and Tish glanced at Martha's tattered attire. "Your clothes are still in the cubicle," Tish pointed out.

"Oh, yeah! Hang on a minute," Martha practically scurried over to the cubicle, before hesitating and rounding on the Doctor. "And don't you think you can sneak off while I'm in there, mister."

He stuck his hands in his pockets and put on his most innocent expression. "Me? Wouldn't do a thing like that, would I?"

She gave him a very level stare, and he shuffled his feet a bit before pulling a face.

"Oh, all right, all right. I hope you appreciate that I just spent a great deal of money," he said with aspersion. Martha snorted.

"I saw the name on that card, Doctor. He's going to kill you."

"Who, Jack? Naaaah," the Doctor grinned. "He won't know until he's twenty-eight thousand years old."

Martha pulled on her clothes with relief, noting in passing that the brown-grey-green goop of Hatha Seventeen was even under her fingernails. Flipping open her phone, she bit her lip at the illuminated clock face. Quarter to six. That didn't leave much time to get home, have a shower and get to the local pub with Tom. Pulling her filthy hair back into a ponytail, she grabbed her discarded handbag and stepped out, past the dazed Sharon.

"It's like touching butterfly wings," the woman said dreamily, hugging one of the new dresses.

"I think it's been a bit much for her," muttered Francine.

"Butterflies covered in cornflour," Sharon continued happily, her eyes glassy.

"Mind you, I know how she feels," Francine added, a smirk pulling at her lips.

"Tempura butterflies!" Sharon crooned.

Tish was going a very interesting shade trying to stop herself laughing. "Come on," she managed. "Home." She waved at Martha and winked before pulling Francine, protesting, from the shop.

"I should… I should really, ah… go," the Doctor backed towards the TARDIS, his expression apologetic and a little panicked. "Things to do, planets to save, kittens in trees, all that stuff."

Martha shook her head at him. "You never change, do you," she said in an amused tone.

"You'd be surprised," his lip quirked. "I'll be seeing you, Martha Jones."

"Soon," she qualified. "May 24th next year at 3pm would be brilliant."

"Right," he nodded, and his expression grew very slightly frightened. "Wedding."

Martha nodded. "Wedding," she confirmed. "Where you will dance, drink banana daiquiris and compare evil-thwarting detonation-of-doom stories with Jack, Ianto, Mickey and Gwen."

"Bunch of amateurs," he sniffed.

She glanced back down at her phone. "I better go, meeting Tom for dinner," she said ruefully.

"Still haven't met this Tom bloke," the Doctor said, folding his arms, a touch of the 'Oncoming Storm' in his expression. Martha shook a finger at him.

"Oh no you don't. No intimidating my fiancé. He's already been through all that with Leo and Dad." She tipped her head to one side. "But you could come for dinner? It's just Saturday night at the pub."

The Doctor rocked back as though he'd been pushed. "Ahhhh, no, no Martha, no, not really me…"

Martha raised her eyebrows at him. "It's just dinner and a drink. Honestly, you're acting as though I asked you to snog a Sontaran."

The Doctor hemmed and hawed a little, before closing his eyes and nodding sharply. "I may regret this," he muttered. Martha laughed at him.

"You know, earlier today someone asked me why I was frightened of trying on dresses, seeing as I'd saved the world and all. Well, I could ask the same of you, Doctor."

"I'm not frightened of trying on dresses," he objected. She smacked his arm.

"Funny man," she said severely, but she could feel the huge grin on her face. "Going to take me home, Mister Smith?"

* * *

"Tom?" Martha yelled as she opened her front door, the Doctor hard on her heels. "Tom, you home?"

"Upstairs!" his voice floated down. "Just getting ready — you're a bit late, where've you been?

Martha exchanged a look with the Doctor, who chuckled a little. "Ah, you wouldn't believe it," she said weakly.

"I live with Doctor Martha Jones, I believe in _everything_!" came his cheerful answer.

"Would you believe that we've got one more for dinner?" she said tentatively.

"You drag Tish along?"

"No," she said slowly. "An old friend... dropped in on me today."

"Critic," the Doctor whispered at her. She elbowed him in the ribs.

"So who are we being inflicted on tonight?" Tom called, his footsteps echoing on the wooden bedroom floor.

"The Doctor."

There was the sound of something being dropped, and a muffled curse. "Uh, I really won't believe it, will I?" Tom's tone was a little weaker.

"I don't bite, y'know," the Doctor called up, before shoving his hands in his pockets and walking down the hall towards the kitchen. "So this is your house, Martha? It's nice, it's very… nice, yeah… it's very…_cosy_, ah…"

"It's small," said Martha, amused. "We can't afford anything bigger on our salaries as yet, and all the savings are going to the wedding. Okay, kettle's there, cups there, tea there. I'll have a quick shower and be ready in a tic. Oh, there you are!" This last was to Tom, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, his black hair wet from his own shower. She kissed his cheek and pulled him into the warm, cramped little room. "Tom, this is the Doctor, Doctor, Tom Milligan," she introduced them, and quickly turned away and hurried up the stairs before she could start laughing. The _expressions_ on their _faces_…

Awkward silence reigned in the little kitchen.

The Doctor cleared his throat.

Tom scuffed his shoe against the doorjamb.

The Doctor offered the young man a self-conscious smile.

"Sooooooo," Tom said finally. "Cup of tea?"

"Oooh, please," the Doctor sat at the kitchen table and studied the photos stuck to the fridge. There was Martha and Mickey wearing party hats, Martha kissing Tom on some beach, Jack and Martha and another man whom the Doctor guessed was Ianto, and a picture of himself which he recognised as taken from CC footage somewhere. He grinned slightly. Tom noticed the Doctor's expression and nodded to the photo.

"She had her boss pull that from the CC footage they have of you," he remarked. "Said she wanted a picture to remember you by, and not… well…."

There was another, extremely uncomfortable pause.

"She seems fine," the Doctor offered hesitantly.

Tom looked at his shoes. "Oh she is, she's better than fine. She's Martha. But she still… She… dreams a lot."

The Doctor winced. "I never meant to hurt her."

Tom shrugged. "I know that. She knows that, too. These things happen." He dunked the teabags into the hot water gently, repetitively. "She was strong enough to take it."

"She became strong enough to leave it," the Doctor said softly.

"So, you coming to the wedding?" Tom asked, holding up the milk in query, and the Doctor nodded.

"Yes. I mean, yes to milk and the wedding. Next May, huh? Lovely time, next May. No rain for weeks, if I remember correctly. Watch out for a sentient fungus invasion. Or is that May 3009…"

Tom poured the milk, a secret little smile spreading across his face. "Yeah. Next May 24th."

The Doctor accepted his tea. "Where is it? Martha gave me date and time, but not place…"

Tom sat down opposite the Time Lord who was one of his fiancée's best friends, and nodded to the photos on the fridge. "A little beach in Wales. Martha took me there, last summer. Apparently I met her there, in a year that never happened."

The Doctor's jaw dropped slightly. "Really… so you know…"

"Everything," Tom confirmed, his smile becoming slightly predatory. "She told me everything."

"Turnabout," groaned the Doctor. "Always knew it'd catch up with me."

Tom gave him a puzzled look. The Doctor waved a hand in dismissal. "Never mind. So, Tommy-boy, you're a doctor, eh? You're a doctor, Martha's a doctor, I'm the Doctor... All Doctors together, that's us! What field, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm in paediatrics," Tom took a sip. "Covered for my boss, today."

"Kids! Aw, kids are brilliant, love kids," the Doctor leaned forwards over the table. "They haven't set their minds in stone yet. Open to anything. Love that."

Tom leaned forward too, his voice growing more animated. "Exactly! That's why I'm in paediatrics and not a general practitioner. I love the things they come out with, they're absolutely _classic_. I had a four year old girl ask me today if I spoke virus language."

"Don't knock it, I know a few. Martha said you went to Africa?"

"Yeah, I did a tour with Médecins Sans Frontières," Tom grimaced a little. "It was pretty harrowing."

"I know," the Doctor said gently. "These things are."

"I guess you would, at that," Tom polished off his tea and held out his hand for the Doctor's cup, but the Doctor shook his head and brought his hands around the cup as though protecting it.

"Not yet! Good tea should take time," he insisted.

"Not too much, I hope," Martha said as she breezed into the kitchen, twisting her hair at the nape of her neck. "I need that drink, remember?"

"What happened today, anyway?" Tom rinsed out his cup and leaned against the kitchen counter. "You were a right mess, darling."

"Martha? Care to tell him _everything_?" the Doctor said meaningfully, and she darted a look at him — and blushed.

"Oh no, we are not going there," she declared hotly. "Pub. Now. We can tell the story once I've got a nice glass of Riesling."

"The lady has spoken," said Tom good-humouredly. "All right. Where are you parked?"

"Ahhh…" Martha picked up her handbag. "I left my car around the corner from the boutique… I'll get it in the morning."

"I'm out the front," the Doctor offered.

Tom's quick look was startled. "Ri-ight."

"We'll walk," Martha said firmly. "No offense to the TARDIS, but I am done for the night, Doctor."

As they filed out the door, Tom's eyebrows rose at the sight of the tall blue box standing on the footpath. The Doctor watched the dark-haired young man's reaction with amusement, and leaned down to Martha. "Sort of strong, eh?"

"Oh, shut up!" she laughed.

* * *

The Doctor closed the TARDIS door and leaned against it for a moment, pulling off his tie. His eyes were distant, but there was a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Not a bad day, as days go. He'd saved a civilisation, seen Martha Jones, met her fiancé, eaten quite a nice meal and drunk a little too much wine. It reminded him painfully of the last time he'd done the domestic thing — Christmas dinner with the Tylers — but watching the happy pair had taken the edge off, as had the public setting. They were so warm and _comfortable_, he realised with a slight pang. Martha's fiery stubbornness and Tom's quiet, gentle humour were like pieces of a puzzle slotting together.

Pushing himself off the TARDIS door, he strode slowly to the console, his footsteps echoing around the room. "Like you and me, hey, old girl?" he murmured, laying a hand fondly against the time rotor. The hum increased slightly and subsided. He grinned. "Don't worry — I won't tell anyone that you're the stubborn one."

A spark flew from the console to singe his fingers.

"Ow! Okay, okay!"

* * *

FIN 


End file.
